Something Wicked This Way Comes
by mahlia
Summary: A collection of one-shots involving the Winchester family, their friends and their adversaries, from banshees to werewolves and everything in between. Some will follow canon, others will be totally AU and each chapter will focus on a different entity. A few chapters may include character death. See the summary at the beginning of each chapter for any warnings.
1. The Banshee

This piece will be 31 chapters in length, nearly all of which being one-shots. It was a tumblr meme I stumbled across a long time ago and started, but never finished. And since I'd taken such a hiatus from writing any fanfiction, I thought this was a good way to ease back into the water, so to speak. Each chapter will feature a different supernatural being or creature and some chapters will reference episodes of the show.

Apart from the occasional curse word and mention of injuries, this will be rated K+. The usual disclaimer about Supernatural and its characters not belonging to me and that I make no profit from any of this applies.

* * *

**Chapter One: The Banshee**

_The banshee (in Irish folklore) is a spirit in the form of a wailing woman who appears to or is heard by members of a family as a sign that one of them is about to die. _

He first heard the scream as he lost consciousness in the back of the Impala.

Sam was driving them to the hospital and the two of them were yelling at each other in the front seat, as they always did and as fiercely as ever. John was berating Sam for not using the Colt to kill him and take care of their demon problem. Sam, in turn, was trying to explain he didn't have it in him to kill John and there had to be another way to do this, raising his voice to try and talk over his father. Dean grinned darkly; Sam should know better than to try and talk over Dad. He'd lost every time he'd tried- no one could yell like John Winchester.

As they continued arguing, Dean glanced out at the window at the stars up in the sky and thought for a moment and decided he was on Sam's side. He wouldn't have had the stones to shoot his father, either. It's the reason he'd _begged_ Sam not to and he'd be damned if he was going to feel guilty for doing that. Dad didn't need to die to solve this. Saving Dad was all that mattered because he was the one who could get this done- the one who could take out the bastard that killed Mom.

Sam swerved the car after he'd turned to yell at John again and Dean cringed at the sudden movement, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. His internal organs felt like mashed potatoes and whenever his heart beat it actually hurt; whatever the YED had done had nearly killed him and he was having some serious trouble breathing. He was trying so hard not to panic that he barely noticed the blood continuing to ooze down his chin as a piercing shriek nearly ruptured his ear drums.

He forced his eyes open and looked around, trying to find the source of the noise when he heard it again. Wincing at the pain in his head, he realized Sam and John couldn't hear whatever it was. If they had, he would bet they still wouldn't be yelling at each other. He flipped through his mental catalog of monsters, demons and all things nasty, trying to figure it out. Thankfully his brain didn't have to get very far into the table of contents before he figured it out.

The scream of a woman, only audible to the person in the car who was closest to death.

A banshee.

_Oh, shit._

Her next agonizing scream nearly blew out his ear drums and between her god-awful wailing and the intense pain in his chest, he felt himself slipping further and further away. John's and Sam's voices continued to fade into the distance and all he could hear was her mournful crying, the noise so loud it was making him nauseous.

_Please, God, just make it _**_stop_**_._

Her next scream was abruptly cut off by the high-pitched squeal of brakes. Sam had stomped his foot to the floor trying to avoid something and as whatever it was hit the Impala, the only thing Dean could feel was the relief that her wailing stopped. He had no idea that a Mack truck driven by a demon had plowed into them, sending them careening off the highway and into the ditch.

As the faint notes of 'Bad Moon Rising' trickled into the back seat, only one though crossed Dean's mind before everything went dark.

_At least she stopped screaming._


	2. The Siren

And here we have chapter two. It's rated K+ and the standard disclaimers apply.

But just _once_ I'd like to say I own Dean Winchester. ;)

* * *

**Chapter Two: The Siren**

_In Greek mythology, **Sirens** were dangerous and devious creatures, portrayed as femmes fatales who lured sailors to their deaths with their enchanting voices._

"Dean, we've run into sirens before. Bronze knife dipped in the blood of the victim. Easy as pie."

"Mmm. Pie. I could really use some pie. I noticed a diner on the edge of town..."

Sam rolled his eyes and huffed a sigh, holding the knife out to his brother. "You can have your pie later. Right now we have a chance to go Michael Myers on that siren. Let's get to it."

Dean shrugged and took the knife from Sam, sliding it into a sheath beneath his arm. Sam grabbed the duffle bag and glanced around the motel room, checking to make sure they hadn't left anything behind. When Dean raised his eyebrows in question, Sam gave a single nod.

"We're good."

"Then let's kill this thing."

* * *

Unlike their last encounter with a siren, they didn't find themselves in a strip club studying the dancers. This time, they were hiking through the woods of northern Minnesota in November, hunting down the siren that was luring people to their deaths from atop a granite bluff overlooking Lake Superior. There were a few inches of heavy lake-effect snow on the ground and the forecast called for another ten to twelve inches that night. The wind picked up, whipping wet snow against their chests.

"She couldn't have chosen a place like Palm Beach?" Dean muttered, adjusting the collar of his jacket.

"I don't know, I've always wanted to see the North Shore," Sam said. "Remember one of Dad's last journal entries? He made the trek up here once after taking care of that wendigo when we were kids. He wrote about taking us camping up here."

Dean didn't say a word, the mention of Dad and their camping trips stirring up memories Sam obviously didn't have. Their camping trips had been no more than hunts in disguise, staying in tents instead of motel rooms, bathing in cold streams instead of taking hot showers. He could rough it like the next guy, but he hated sleeping in tents. His back was in terrible shape and sleeping on the ground left him sore for days.

They came to the end of a hiking trail that opened into an empty parking lot. The Split Rock lighthouse loomed ahead in the darkness, the large, crystal mechanism rotating at the top, spilling a beam of light out into Lake Superior. Dean glanced up, watching the light cut through the darkness, wishing like hell they weren't about to do this.

"Listen, Sam, if you don't want to do this, I can…"

"Just make sure you gank her before she walks me off the cliff." Sam turned around and looked at Dean. "Really, I can handle it."

Dean said nothing and retreated to the woods a few hundred yards away. As he crouched down and began arming himself, headlights flickered and a late model pickup truck drove into the parking lot. A tall brunette climbed out of the cab and grinned when she spotted Sam. Dean didn't miss the predatory look on her face before she slammed the door behind her, extinguishing the dome light in the cab.

He rifled through his bag, quickly locating the set of ear protectors he'd brought to block out the sound of her voice. Worn by baggage handlers at airports, they could block the sound of jet engine noise so he was fairly confident they would also block the song of this siren who was now only a few yards from Sam. Before she could start talking, Dean put the ear protectors on and instantly felt uneasy, having his sense of hearing completely taken away.

Sam watched as Fiona approached him, a sickly sweet smile on her face.

"Sam! I wasn't sure you'd come." She wrapped her hands around his, her long, cold fingers squeezing his firmly. His hands and wrists started tingling as she tightened her grip. He realized she marked her prey not with her voice, but with her touch. And she could turn it on and off at will. Before he realized how quickly he'd been affected and could pull his hands away, he heard himself speak.

"I had to see you again."

She let go of his hands, instead reaching up and caressing his cheek with her fingertips. Sam closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, forgetting about the cold, the steep drop onto the rocks behind him and that Dean watching from his post in the trees.

"You thought you had me all figured out," she said quietly, a touch of venom in her voice. "You come here, try and stop me from doing what I, what _all_ of us do." Her voice hardened. "What gives you the right?"

Sam opened his eyes and looked down at her, puzzled at her tone. "I would never hurt you. I would do anything to protect you, to keep you safe."

She stepped back and walked to the fence, looking out into the darkness. "Even protect me from Dean?"

"My brother Dean? He wouldn't hurt you. Even if he wanted to, I wouldn't let him."

Her back still turned to him, she grinned wickedly. "That's what I like to hear. Now, I need you to do something for me."

Sam was instantly at her side. "Anything."

Her eyes darkened as she spoke.

"Jump."

Dean watched as Fiona and Sam stood at the fence. He'd been reading Sam's lips, following his half of the conversation. Sam was under her spell, as planned, and now was his chance to end it. He hadn't failed to notice how Sam responded when she touched him. His gut telling him he needed all five senses, he ditched the ear protectors and left his hiding place, stalking along the tree line. He had to close the nearly three hundred-yard gap quickly, before she convinced Sam to jump. When he saw Sam approach the fence and his lanky legs begin to climb over it, he took off sprinting toward them.

"SAM!"

Fiona turned and as he ran, Dean saw the absolute fury in her eyes at his interruption. He felt a sense of satisfaction in pissing her off. Sam didn't move and remained at his perch, sitting on the edge of the fence, poised to jump into the darkness below.

"Sam, darling, do as you're told," Fiona said quickly, knowing she didn't have much time left.

"Sam, don't. At least, not until I get something from you first."

Sam startled and turned toward Dean, a puzzled frown creasing his forehead. Fiona looked at Sam, then back at Dean.

"You aren't going to stop him?"

"Nah," Dean said. "I don't think I could- he's got a few inches and about twenty-five pounds on me." He drew the bronze blade from its sheath and whispered an apology to Sam as he grabbed his sleeve and wrenched it up, slashing the blade against his forearm. Sam winced and pulled away, confused. "But I can stop you."

Dean turned and lunged at Fiona, who barely managed to avoid the blade. She shot a panicked look toward Sam, who was watching the scene unfold with blood running down his arm.

"Jump, Sam. Do it for me."

Dean spared a look behind him to check on Sam, who was leaning forward and preparing to let himself fall.

"This happened to us once, it is _not_ happening again," Dean muttered. He rushed at Fiona, tackling her around the waist and pinning her to the ground. Her long legs thrashed wildly as she tried to hold the knife in Dean's hands away from her chest. He pushed harder, the tip of the knife piercing the skin on her chest.

"Fiona!"

She stopped struggling long enough to look over at Sam and Dean took the opportunity and wrenched the knife down and into her chest. Her mournful scream pierced the cold night air and he fell back, clutching at his ears. Her scream died as she did and Dean scrambled to his feet, turning back toward Sam. He was on his hands and knees in the snow, head hanging low and breathing heavily.

"Sammy?" Dean staggered toward his brother, his lungs protesting the exertion in the cold air with a hacking cough.

"I'm good." He rocked back on his heels and slowly stood up, noticing the gash on his arm. He winced and flexed his hand, trying to determine if Dean had nicked any muscle. "Did you have to cut so deeply?"

"Don't be such a baby. You'll barely have a scar by the time I finish stitching you up," Dean replied, handing Sam his jacket. Sam craned his neck to find Fiona, but all he saw was dirty, grey snow next to Dean.

Sam bit the inside of his cheek and turned away from Dean, looking out at the lake. He remembered almost letting go of the fence before Dean finished the job and even for a few seconds after he could still hear Fiona. But after she was gone, he still heard someone in his head, the mocking voice telling him to jump because Sam would never be able to get away from him or block him out.

"Sam?"

He blinked several times and turned around, his back once again to the lake. "Yeah?"

"You coming? It's too damn cold out here to gawk at a lake you can't see."

"Right." Sam took the bandage his brother held out to him and covered the wound on his arm, pressing down much harder than necessary in an attempt to drown out the voice as they walked back to the car.

_See you soon, Sam. I hear Detroit is **lovely** this time of year._


	3. The Revenant

**Chapter Three: The Revenant  
**  
_A revenant is a visible ghost or animated corpse that was believed to return from the grave to terrorize the living. The word "revenant" is derived from the Latin word, revenans, "returning"._

* * *

When Dean was thirteen John took them cross country to stay in South Carolina for six months. John never said why and Dean had never asked. Sam absolutely hated the heat and the humidity, but Dean didn't mind it. He always had responded well to the heat and the humidity had been a welcome change from the hot, dry heat they experienced in Utah the year before.

They lived in a tiny fifth-floor apartment up the coast from Myrtle Beach, complete with a view of the ocean. Whenever he had the free time, Dean could be found sitting on the balcony, slouched down in an old plastic lawn chair, ankles crossed and feet propped up on the railing, watching the ocean and listening to the waves wash ashore. Sometimes John would join him and they'd sit in comfortable silence, letting their stress and weariness recede into the water with the waves.

One exceptionally balmy July evening, Dean was out on the balcony trying to etch the sights, sounds and smells into his memory. He couldn't imagine himself ever settling down, but if he did? He imagined it would be in a place like this, close to the ocean and away from the chaos and stress of big-city life. Just as his eyes closed, he heard footsteps approaching and Sam quietly joined him outside.

"Dean? Dad wants you. Something about a job." Sam sat down on the patio next to Dean's chair, his long arms wrapped around equally long and awkward legs. He looked up at his brother when Dean sighed.

"Alright. He tell you anything about it?"

Sam shook his head. "No, all he said was something about a revenant."

Dean snorted. "Nice." He moved to go inside but paused a moment. "You can have the chair. I likely won't be back for a while."

Sam tugged a worn paperback book from his back pocket and Dean caught a glimpse of the title. _Where The Red Fern Grows_. He smiled. He'd read that to Sam a few years ago during long car rides, when he used to get so car sick. Dean reached down and ruffled Sam's hair. He was already reading as he climbed to his feet to get to the chair.

"Nerd."

Not looking up, Sam smiled and pointed his pen light at the pages of the book. "Jerk."

* * *

John filled Dean in on the creature during their drive to the plantation house.

"The guy was a soldier during the Revolutionary War, an American fighting with the British. He set traps along the routes the American soldiers marched and when he caught someone, he tortured, killed and made examples of them."

"His version of a traitor's death?"

"Mmm hmm. When the British found out, they had him hanged and buried on the grounds of his own plantation."

"And now his corpse is harassing his descendants?"

John glanced at Dean, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "That's an understatement. He killed the caretaker by pushing him off the roof and onto the wrought-iron gate in back of the house. And he's made two of the three children sick."

"So what do we do?" Dean straightened and glanced out the front window as the Impala turned onto a long gravel drive. The home was enormous, with a wrap-around porch on the first and second stories. There was a man on the porch dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.

"We dig him up, cut off his head and roast him."

"And if he's out wandering around?"

"We save ourselves some work not having to dig him up. We skip right to cutting off his head and roasting him."

"Easy enough," Dean said, climbing out of the car.

"Revenants are nasty things, Dean. We're not dealing with a salt and burn here. Be careful."

* * *

Nearly three hours later, John located the gravesite. It was an above-ground tomb just large enough to hold a corpse. There was no name on it, but the bloody dirt trail that led into and out of the limestone box was proof enough they'd found their target.

Dean cautiously peered into the tomb. "Uh, dad? He's not here."

"I didn't think he would be. Let's seal the tomb so he can't get back in. Then we wait."

"I don't think we'll have to wait long." Dean pointed his flashlight at John, into the darkness behind him.

"He behind me?" John drew the machete from his duffle and Dean nodded.

"Yep."

"Get the lighter fluid ready."

John tossed the sheath for the machete to the ground and turned. Their culprit, one Edward James Harrington, was standing before him. The filthy, tattered remains of a red jacket hung from his rotting frame, strands of grimy hair clinging to his skull. Dean covered his nose and mouth because of the stench.

"E.J. Nice of you to join us," John said. He raised the machete and E.J. charged.

Dean watched as E.J. tackled John and bashed a bony fist against John's left temple, laying open an inch-long gash. He clutched the lighter fluid in his left hand, his right hand aiming the flashlight at John. The machete had landed about two feet out of John's reach. Dropping the lighter fluid, Dean rushed to help. He grabbed the machete and raised it above his head, ready to decapitate E.J. E.J. turned and noticing Dean, he stood.

"Bring it on, bonehead."

He swung the blade as E.J. charged and lopped off his right arm. E.J. looked down at his arm twitching in the wet grass and shrieked. Dean dropped the machete and covered his ears, rendering himself completely defenseless. When the noise stopped, he straightened and uncovered his ears in time to catch the back of E.J.'s right hand across his face, hurling him backwards until he collided with a massive willow tree. He landed in a heap at the base.

Dean groaned and rolled over, his shoulder dislocated. He spared a glance at John, who was creeping up behind E.J. as he made his way toward Dean with the machete in his hand. When E.J. reached down and took hold of Dean's throat, John swung the blade. His grip instantly released him and Dean watched as his head went rolling.

John doused E.J.'s head and body with lighter fluid, struck a match and dropped it onto the still-squirming corpse. With one last shriek, E.J. went up in flames and all movement ceased. John crouched next to Dean, whispering in his ear that he needed to set Dean's shoulder.

Dean clung tightly to John with his good arm as John grabbed the other, rotating and tugging on it to reset the joint. Dean cried out, the sound muffled against John's shirt. He breathed a sigh of relief, resting a large, calloused hand against the back of his son's head, pretending not to hear Dean holding back an anguished sob. John counted his blessings every day, and today he was blessed to get through another hunt with Dean. He dreaded the day when his luck ran out and until then, he would do everything in his power to train his boys, to keep them safe.

He picked up Dean and carried him back to the car, glancing one last time at the smoking remains of the revenant as he passed. He couldn't help but wonder if Mary approved of his efforts to look after their boys.

He hoped so.


End file.
